The Pioneer

I walk through the gallery hoping to find it. I haven’t seen it in a long time, but I’ve thought about it recently. I wonder if revisiting it now and comparing it to when I was younger, will I still feel the same toward it or will I view it differently?

I look around the room and find it, it’s not hard to miss. It’s the largest artwork in the room, centre to the other artworks that surround it. The gold traditional frame makes it stand out. The Pioneer by Frederick McCubbin is an artwork that I had many encounters with when I was younger, but not to its true scale. My parents had placemats of some of Australia’s well-known artworks and The Pioneer was on one of them. I wonder what ever happened to them, we’ve moved a number of times and I'm unsure if they’re somewhere, or someone got rid of them.

I was drawn to this artwork over the others and I wondered what the story behind it was. I would spend time after dinner at the dining table looking at it. Seeing it now, it still feels familiar. The time progression between each panel stood out the most to me. From the couple arriving in the bush in the first panel, to establishing themselves and having a child in the second panel, before passing away in the final panel. All the while the background develops from the bush to an established city. I focus on the left panel of the painting. The woman is the main subject over her husband, who’s tending the fire. Her expression stands out the most. it’s difficult to read and I wonder why she’s sitting away from her husband.

I move away from Gregory as he gets the fire going for tonight’s supper as well for warmth. It’s been a long journey from the township. I find a spot to sit and take a moment for myself. I always knew he wanted to live out here in the bush. It helps that local governments are willing to pay people good money to help clear land. I did promise that we would try this together in order for us to earn our living out here. Later we can discuss if this is right. Or we move back to the township and earn our living a different way.

It's so far away from town and if anything were to happen, it would be days before we find help or help comes to us. This bush isn’t familiar to us either, and neither of us know what kind of beasts are friendly or not. We’ve already had encounters with the kangaroos who flee when they see us but other animals we don’t know about.

We’ve been talking about starting a family, once we’ve established ourselves out here. I worry that if I fall ill, there’s no help, or if the birth goes awry, there’s no help. My dear sister, Majorie, had a birth that went wrong, she had help and didn’t make it. I can’t see Gregory allowing that to happen. When the time comes for me to give birth, we’ll travel back to the township for support, but establishing ourselves comes first.

‘Mary, the tea is ready.’

‘Coming, Dear.’

Before standing, I take a moment to stare up at the trees above me and return to Gregory’s side.

I look toward the middle panel and the time jump from just the woman and her husband is clear. It shows the two of them with their son who’s a toddler. Along the way, they’ve settled down and felt that raising children in the bush was right for them. Enough bush has been cleared away for them to have built a home seen in the background.

The middle panel showcases the husband over his wife and their child. Having researched the artwork, the man is a free selector. Free selection started in the 1860s where many acquired land in the bush to farm and make their living. Nothing stands out compared to the woman’s expression in the first panel of the artwork; the husband and his wife are having a casual discussion while he takes a break from his work chopping down trees. I feel that this could be a moment where he reflects upon his life out in the bush.

I stand back as the tree comes down with a crash. The nearby fluttering of wings alerts me to a flock of birds spooked by the tree's collapse. I take a seat on the downed stump and light up my pipe for a smoke.

‘That was quite a crash.’ I look around to see Mary walking up to me carrying Malcolm in her arms. I take notice of how sleepy he is.

‘Ready for his nap?’ I ask.

‘Just woken up. He was asking for you,’ she says. Malcolm clings to Mary and she softly speaks to him.

She’s taken to being a mother well and adjusted to living out here within the bush in the last five years. I know she had her hesitations, I had them myself in living off the land for the first time.

It’s not been easy; we’ve had our disagreements whilst living out here. More so about money and how much comes in. Summer is the best time for making money as many in nearby townships are stocking up on timber for the upcoming winter, but there have been times where the weather hasn’t allowed me to work, and the incoming money is less than normal. Those times have only gotten harder when Malcolm came along, but for the time being, things are going along well.

I look at the final panel with a man inspecting the grave of the couple. The bush has been cleared in the background of the painting, where a city has replaced the trees. Judging by this, I’d say twenty odd years have passed. Having researched the artwork, it’s not clear who he is in the final panel of the painting, McCubbin himself never gave an answer on who it is, choosing to leave it ambiguous. It’s debated by art historians whether the man is the couple’s son or a bushman who has stumbled upon the grave of the couple. I believed it to be the couple’s son, but if it is the bushman, why has he come across the couple’s grave?

It can’t be that much further. Those back in the city said to travel along the trail for a number of miles off the main road before coming across them at the clearing. The grave is along the edge of the clearing.

The bush opens up around me and I find myself in the clearing. Gum trees line the edge, towering over everything else. The grave should be along the edge somewhere. I walk around slowly keeping an eye out, I notice a base of an old home close by. I keep walking before coming across a wooden grave marker. The names ‘Gregory’ and ‘Mary’ are etched.

I wonder who they are and why they chose to live out here in the bush. Every time I mentioned that I was going to be travelling, many older folks told me that if I was coming this way and if I came across the grave to wish them well. Many who chose to live out in the bush were farmers trying to make their living as selectors. Free selection isn’t all that common anymore.

I look around and I can imagine that when they first arrived, it would have been nothing but dense bushland. Now, it’s vast and there’s a view down toward the city and the river running through it. The distant sound of a ship horn blaring travels up from the bay blocking the sound of bird calls for a moment.

I’m not sure if I believe the bushman theory as much, with how much time has passed between panels. I believe it to be the son coming to visit his parents’ grave. The way that he is interacting with the grave, it’s familiar to him, as if it’s his way of being able to connect with his parents who have passed away.

I climb off the horse and tie its reins to a tree. I pat him softly before walking up the path toward the grave. It’s been a while since I visited them last and the trek to get up here takes time and proper planning.

I walk past the outline of the old house that my father had built. The house that I had grown up in. I take a moment to look out towards the bush. I remember watching him cut down trees from the window. Both he and my mother felt it was safer inside. I was always told, ‘it’s dangerous work.’

I walk up toward the makeshift grave where they are both buried. I stand above them for a moment before kneeling.

‘Been a while,’ I say to them.

The rustling of leaves from the wind or the sound of bird call is enough for me to feel both are responding to what I’m saying.

‘A lot has gone on since I last saw you. We’re to have an election. I don’t think much of it and don’t see the point. Some at the pub feel it’s only going to benefit the upper classes.’

I wait a moment and get a gentle rustling of leaves above me.

‘There’s something else. I met a girl and I’m planning on proposing to her. Her name is Alice, I’m not sure if she’ll ever do the trek to meet you, but I did propose with your ring, Mother. I do hope that’s alright; she’s taking good care of it.’

I kneel in silence for a moment. The distant sound of a train horn breaks the silence, I look down the valley towards the city and bay and see the smoke trail heading toward the city.

‘I’ll come by and see you again.’

I step back from the artwork and view it as a whole. From viewing it on the placemat from when I was younger and wondering what the story was, now in the gallery setting, I’m able to tell and express the story that I had always wondered that was being told within the artwork while finding parallels. Choosing to seek the artwork out, similar to the bushman hoping to find the couples’ grave. There’s also an independence that I didn’t have from when I was younger that parallels the son. His choice in leaving the home he grew up in and creating a life for himself following his parents’ death, but also coming back to visit and share news with them.

Everyone has that moment as they get older and chooses to go about in their own way. Coming back to this artwork has made me see I connect with the artwork in a way I wouldn’t have thought.

Bradley Macleod is an emerging writer based in Melbourne/Naarm. He is studying the Bachelor of Arts (Creative Writing) course with RMIT, he has also studied a Certificate IV and a Diploma of Professional Writing and Editing. His piece is an autobiographical look at his experience with The Pioneer from childhood to adulthood told through the perspective of the characters within the artwork. He hopes to have a contemporary fantasy novel published one day taking inspiration from other fantasy novels such as Game of Thrones. In his spare time, he enjoys reading, writing and binge watching his favourite shows.